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.. paint about it... act about it... shit it out in mobiles. . So long as you don't go and do it, . Senators leap up and bray for the Death Penalty with inflexible authority of virus yen.... Death for dope fiends, death for sex queens (I mean fiends) death for the psychopath who offends the cowed and graceless flesh with broken animal innocence of lithe move- ment.... The black wind sock of death undulates over the land, feeling, smelling for the crime of separate life, movers of the fear-frozen flesh shivering under a vast probability curve.... Population blocks disappear in a checker game of genocide.... Any number can play.... The Liberal Press and The Press Not So Liberal and The Press Reactionary Scream approval: "Above all the myth of other-level experience must be eradicated...." And speak darkly of certain harsh realities... cows with the aftosa... prophylaxis.... Power groups of the world frantically cut lines of connection.... The Planet drifts to random insect doom.... Thermodynamics has won at a crawl.. Orgone balked at the post.... Christ bled.. Time ran out.... You can cut into Naked Lunch at any intersection point.... I have written many prefaces. They atrophy and amputate spontaneous like the little toe amputates in a West African disease confined to the Negro race and the passing blonde shows her brass ankle as a mani- cured toe bounces across the club terrace, retrieved and laid at her feet by her Afghan Hound.... Naked Lunch is a blueprint, a How-To Book.. Black insect lusts open into vast, other planet land- scapes.... Abstract concepts, bare as algebra, narrow down to a black turd or a pair of aging cajones.. How-To extend levels of experience by opening the door at the end of a long hall.... Doors that only open in Silence.... Naked Lunch demands Silence from The Reader. Otherwise he is taking his own pulse.... Robert Christie knew The Answering Service.. Kill the old cunts... keep pubic hairs in his locket ...wouldn't you? Robert Christie, mass strangler of women -- sounds like a daisy chain -- hanged in 1953. Jack The Ripper, Literal Swordsman of the 1890s and never caught with his pants down... wrote a letter to The Press. "Next time I'll send along an ear just for jolly.. Wouldn't you?" "Oh be careful! There they go again!" said the old queen as his string broke spilling his balls over the floor.... 'Stop them will you, James, you worthless old shit! Don't just stand there and let the master's balls roll into the coal-bin!" Window dressers scream through the station, beat the cashiers with the Fairy Hyp. Delaudid deliver poor me (Delaudid is souped up, dehydrate morphine). The sheriff in black vest types out a death warrant: "Gotta make it legal and exempt narcotic...." Violation Public Health Law 334... Procuring an orgasm by the use of fraud. |
